


Writings to You

by monaboyd_archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: Angst, Death, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-03-15
Updated: 2005-03-15
Packaged: 2018-07-27 17:06:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7626850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monaboyd_archivist/pseuds/monaboyd_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>I gave you hope that became a disappointment... this is an alright start...</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Writings to You

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Shirasade: this story was originally archived at the Monaboyd.net Archive, which was closed in September 2014 due to software issues and a lack of new submissions for several years . To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in October 2014. I e-mailed all authors about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact me using the e-mail address on the Monaboyd.net Archive collection profile.

  
**Disclaimer:** Jeez, writing disclaimers gets old after a while. [sigh] Here we go again. This isn’t true. This never happened. and probably never will. There you go, you critics. Happy now?  


_March 13_  
Dear journal,  
I’m writing in your bullshit pages because my shrink is crazier than I am. He thinks you're therapy. He figures if the death of my soul mate can hammer me into a Psych-ward, what will I do with this? He is so stupid. He's so stupid that he thinks he pulled me through the breakdown when in reality, it was Billy. Always. Only Billy.  
I was looking through old postcards he’d sent me from when he was in Scotland. All were decorated with the most beautiful of artwork, some of our favourites. Paintings were his obsession. He used art as another way to love me, to help me. To keep us always together.  
Sometimes I close my eyes and I feel him all around me. I almost can hear his voice in my head.  
God, Billy, why do I think you are still here? Why do I think that you can hear me?  
My entire world, lost to a car crash. Seems to be enough to make one buy a bike.  
\- Dominic.

 

 _March 20_  
Dear journal,  
I vowed that I wouldn’t glance at your accursed pages again, yet here I am, pen in hand, writing as if it was something I wanted to do. It’s not like this a private thing, it’s later to be read by my aforementioned shrink.  
I wish greatly that everyone will just leave me alone. Elijah, Viggo, Ian, everyone, asking if I’m okay, if I wanted company, if I needed someone to comfort me. As much as I love those guys, I’m ready to throw them out the door.  
No, Elijah, I’m not okay.  
No, Viggo, I don’t want any company.  
No, Sean, I don’t need you and your words of comfort.  
No, Ian, I don’t need your wisdom.  
All I need is Billy. Always Billy. Where are you, my dear?  
\- Dominic.

 _March 23_  
Dearest Billy,  
I stared at that painting today. You know the one. The one I did of you, standing on that hill in New Zealand, you remember, don’t you? Where we first kissed…. Yes, that hill.  
Today has been nothing but torment, a pain and a longing resides deeply inside of me, and all I want is for you to come home. I have almost gotten to the point of refusing to leave this house, in case one day you decided to return.  
Maybe the shrink was right; maybe I do belong in the asylum. Although, I never understood what it would do for me. Other than separate me from the things that bring back the fond and beautiful memories of you.  
My paintings mainly, they’re the only shred of beautiful you that I have left. My lovely one…  
\- Dominic.

 _April 9_  
Dear Billy,  
Why is it I think that you can hear me? Why do I so greatly believe that you can see these paintings I make? The most recent…. It’s a beautiful tree, your favourite, the ones that have those beautiful purple flowers on them, I never was good with trees… The purple on the flowers is drying now… Still very wet…

But you cant see it…. Can you? And you never will.  
I took the water and destroyed the painting.  
What’s the point? It’s not like it matters in the long run.  
\- Dominic.

 _April 17_  
Dear journal,  
I am not sure how much more I can take. Between breaking down in sobbing fits, the drinking, the self injury and the constant depression… I’m not sure if it’s something I can handle anymore.  
I have to face it now. I had a perfect life. Someone who loved me as much as I loved him. Someone I wanted to marry. I was… happy. For once in my life I was happy. And now, it’s over. It’s gone.  
Oh, Billy, I hope that by tomorrow I will get to see your beautiful face again. Maybe get to see you smile. I hope that by tomorrow, Elijah or someone will come to check on me, to visit, and realize what I’ve done. I hope that by tomorrow, there wont be a living trace of Dominic Monaghan left. Dom died when you died, my lovely Billy, you just moved on a little quicker than I.

So tonight, dear journal, I will lay me down to sleep. Enough of your bullshit pages, maybe by tomorrow, my writing will be covered in dried blood, maybe by tomorrow, these words wont even be readable.

Maybe by tomorrow, journal, they’ll find me and say to themselves “It was for the best.”  
Because journal, it is for the best.  
Maybe by tomorrow, they will have let me go.  
\- Dominic.


End file.
